


and i'm all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed

by IOVITA



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: AU - Rhythmic Gymnastics, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, helene is crazy jealous in this one but yaknow.. Character Growth And Development and all that jazz, its kinda angsty but it has a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IOVITA/pseuds/IOVITA
Summary: Hélène Kuragina has been second best her entire life. Second best to her beloved brother, second best to the legendary Marya Dmitriyevna as a silver medallist at the London Olympics, and now second best to brilliant newcomer Natasha Rostova. Hélène wants more than anything to take her rightful place as winner in the following Olympic year, but her plans are turned upside down when Dmitriyevna comes back out of retirement. Only two Russian gymnasts can make it to Rio, and Hélène's sure fucking gonna be one of them.{the gay rhythmic gymnastics au i've been dreaming of for over a year! featuring a bitter, determined helene, a lonely marya desperate to distract herself through rhythmic gymnastics, an unstoppable natasha, cameos by iconic rhythmic gymnasts, angsty lesbians, and t.a.t.u.}





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hélène kuragina loses yet again, and vows it will be for the last time.

It fucking sucks to lose. Hélène Kuragina should know. She's lost too many times to count.

It's not like the medals crowded around her neck soothe her wounds. Anything but. Gold, silver, silver, gold, _fucking silver_. It's the Olympics all over again. And all the World Championships she's ever competed in. And every Grand Prix and World Cup where she stood on the right of Marya and gritted her fucking teeth and smiled like her life depended on it, because it did. And it hurt, more than anything.

Tonight is no exception. The worst of it is, she's so _close_ to her - can hear every gasp and laugh that leaves her mouth, can feel her elbow brushing against her shoulder, could reach up and choke the breath out of Natasha Rostova if she wanted to. And she does. She wants that gold medal - she wants to rip open her skin and force it into her heart and coat that beating, bloody organ in gold. She wants to shove it in Viner's face, in Zaripova's face. She wants to walk up to fucking Kabaeva and Bessonova and even - no, _especially_ Kanaeva, and snarl "I fucking did it. I'm one of you now."

And the way things are going, that's never going to happen.

The thing is, Hélène knows she's good. She knows without a shadow of a doubt that she is one of the best rhythmic gymnasts of all time - Olympic silver medallist, World All-Around silver medallist - she's now the world champion in hoop and ribbon, for fuck's sake - but she's not _the_ best. Marya was. Natasha is. And Hélène is destined, it seems, to live in a haze of silver, to stand on the sidelines and cheer on her teammates and forever be second best.

Her nostrils flare. She holds up her medal - shining so bright she's scared it'll burn her fingers - and clenches her fist and smiles.

Cameras flash and flash and she's losing herself in them. Imagining what it would be like to stand on top of the podium. Imagining five gold medals around her neck, smiling genuinely this time, waving, beaming, grinning, hearing the roar of the crowd. She can feel it now, feel the wave of adrenaline rise up in her - like stepping out onto the carpet, except a thousand times better.

One day, it's going to be her up there. One day, she'll make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very short prologue, but the first chapter will definitely be longer! you can find me on tumblr at @roxieusher, where i will happily recommend you millions of rg routines!


	2. wash away all the shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hélene receives an unwelcome surprise, unexpected inspiration, and an invitation.

Watching Natasha Rostova win is bad enough, but living with her is a whole different kind of hell.

There's no escape. She's everywhere. In the training halls, in the dining room, running up and down the halls of the dorms with her cousin - the cousin's name is Sonya and she's been promoted from reserve to full-time member of the Russian group as of a few months ago - and hanging onto Viner's every word, which quite frankly makes Hélène sick.

She's been hoping that by some miracle Natasha and Sonya will be allowed to go home for a week and she'll get some peace and quiet. But no, they're representing the country and they have to train and as a result, they all get two days off for Christmas. Plus, they're all choreographing new routines and everyone's busy, so the very thought of a Christmas break makes Viner's eyes flash. Hélène isn't even looking forward to her measly two days. She'll be stuck with her parents and all they'll talk about is how _wonderfully_ Anatole is doing, and what an _inspirational_ musician he is, and how he has _such_ a bright future ahead of him. Hélène knows perfectly well her brother is blowing all the money he receives from performances on booze and parties and he's probably contracted fifty STDs in the past month, but she can't exactly tell that to her parents. She'll just sit and smile and silently seethe over the fact that her parents have an Olympic medallist for a daughter and all they can think about is their precious Anatole.

She knows full well Natasha has loving, adoring parents. She knows this because she's seen them interviewed time and time again over the past year, barely able to contain their excitement. She's seen Natasha's plump little father run past Irina Viner herself to give his baby girl a hug. It makes her so mad she feels like she's got ants running under her skin.

They're all lined up in a row, stretching; ten or so girls in the splits. Natasha is beside her, chattering to Sonya about something inane and boring - from what Hélène can gather, she's met some fencer who just made it on the national team. Hélène leans back and lifts her back leg up into an oversplit, ignoring the slight burn. Flexibility's never been her strong suit, and stretching's been a battle for years and years. Not like Natasha, who's hyperflexible, and is currently stretching back to rest her head on her leg, just to show off.

"I wish I was that flexible," says Sonya, rolling her eyes.

"Watch it," says Hélène snarkily to Natasha. "One day you'll snap your fucking spine."

" _Please_ ," murmurs Mary, on Hélène's other side. "You don't have to swear." Hélène looks over and she's _crossing_ herself, for Christ's sake.

Mary Bolkonskaya is Hélène's roommate. When they first met, Hélène was under the impression that she was boring; now she's grown used to the fact that Mary is a) really weird, and b) _really_ religious. Which was a sticking point for them a while back, but Hélène's warmed to her enough to tone down the cursing. They get on pretty well, actually. They bonded over their mutual hatred of Natasha and now Hélène's attempting to introduce Mary to the world of fashion.

" _Holy shit_ ," whispers Natasha, and at first Hélène thinks she's saying it to piss off Mary, but then she looks over at her and Natasha is staring reverently behind them.

Hélène turns and god, _that_ is not was she was expecting. Or, actually, several things.

One: Irina Viner is there. She never comes to watch the girls _stretch_ ; if she shows up, it'll be to watch Natasha or Hélène or the group train routines - which means that she's never here this time of year, when they're still choosing music. She's impeccably dressed, of course, all in white with a white hat. Hélène wonders if you can smother someone with a hat. She'd certainly like to smother Irina fucking Viner.

Two: Marya Dmitriyevna is there. And all of a sudden, Hélène feels really weird and self-conscious because that's her rival - well, to be honest, they were never really rivals. Marya spent her rhythmic career annihilating everyone else. Hélène can remember only one time she beat her in any category, and that was when Marya was injured, and even then she only beat her by 0.05. Point is, Marya is a legend, and she retired over a year ago, and she shouldn't even _be_ at Novogorsk. Hélène just assumed she'd be living in Petersburg or something in a fancy fucking apartment with a spa and eight lovers. Instead, she's here, and she's wearing - well, that brings Hélène to her third point.

Three: Marya is wearing a sports bra and leggings. Which, of course, implies she's here to fucking train.

"Oh," says Hélène, and she knows it before Viner even turns to address them. " _Fuck._ "

"Girls," says Viner. "I'd like you all to come here."

They put their limbs back into place and get up off the floor. Natasha's practically vibrating with excitement. "That's Marya Dmitriyevna!" she hisses to Sonya. "That's, like, actually _her!_ "

"Ding ding ding, points for Rostova," snaps Hélène.

"I'd like your attention," says Viner. She puts her arm around Marya and brings her forward. "I'm sure you all know who this is."

Marya doesn't smile, doesn't wave. She just nods once, regally. God, Hélène hates gold medallists.

"Marya and I have some very exciting news," says Viner, and Hélène suddenly has a fleeting hope that she's here to coach. She's come here to coach Natasha or something, or maybe she's hear to teach a masterclass, _yes_ , that's it, it's a masterclass. Something about Utyashevas. She's teaching all those insanely difficult elements that she used to beat Hélène with. She's going to be here for a few days and then she'll be gone, gone, gone.

"Marya has decided to make a comeback this season."

And Hélène goes numb.

 

* * *

 

 

"So you're telling me _Marya Dmitriyevna_ is back? Nine months before the Olympics? Having been out for over a _year?_ "

"Yes, Anatole," snarls Hélène, gripping her phone so hard it occurs to her it might break. "That's _exactly_ what I said."

"Well, she doesn't stand a chance, not if she's out of shape. Relax, Lena. You and Rostova will get the Olympic spots for sure."

Hélène sighs and lies back down on her bed. "You're underestimating her. We're talking about the _best rhythmic gymnast of all time_. There's no fucking way she's out of shape. If we're talking about track records, she and Rostova will go and I'll be stuck in reserve."

"So beat Rostova at the Moscow Grand Prix. Work with Zaripova and create new difficulties or something."

"That's easier said than done, Anatole."

"What, you're really going to let some sixteen-year-old take your Olympic spot? Or an old hag? You're better than that."

She stays silent. That's fucking easy for _Anatole_ to say. He's been the golden boy ever since he was born, has a gift for the violin unmatched by anyone. He never had to work to be good. Hélène spent hours upon hours practicing until every step caused her pain, dropped out of school, was punished for gaining weight by Viner with her water-only diets. She cried herself to sleep every night for her first two years at Novogorsk - not that she'd ever tell Anatole, of course. She's worked herself harder than she ever thought possible, and it's still never been enough.

Sometimes she's sure she's only stayed in this sport out of spite.

Anatole shifts on the other end of the line. "Lena?"

"Yeah?" she says. She's so, so tired.

"Mama and Papa are really are proud of you."

_That's_ a fucking lie.

"Thanks, Anatole," she says.

"Do you - do you wanna talk to Fedya? I can get him on the phone."

"No. I just kinda wanna sleep."

"Okay," he says. "I love you, big sis."

"Love you too."

The line goes dead, and Hélène lies back and buries her face in her hands.

This is just so _fucking_ unfair. Marya had her glory. She won gold in London, and she won every World Championships she ever competed in, and she's the best. Objectively the best and most successful rhythmic gymnast ever. She can take Rostova winning, but Marya coming back? That's just fucking cruel, and Hélène wants to throw her off the fucking planet and into the sun.

"You know," says Mary from the other bed, without looking up from her book, "you can beat Natasha. You beat her half the time in the qualification round. You just psych yourself out when it gets to the finals."

Hélène raises her eyes to meet her. "Look me in the eye and tell me I can beat her. Do it."

"That's stupid," says Mary. She's still not looking at her.

"Just fucking _do_ it, Mary."

"I'm not going to do it if you swear," she says primly, her mouth folded in a thin line of disapproval.

"Fine," she snaps. "I'm sorry I asked."

She throws off the covers of her bed and lies down, tugging them back over her. _Fuck_. Fuck Anatole, fuck Mary, fuck Natasha, fuck Viner, and especially, _fuck_ Marya Dmitriyevna. She curls up and shuts her eyes, trying desperately to ignore the hot tears that slip out.

"Hélène."

Hélène looks up and _jesus_ , Mary's standing over her. She rubs furiously at her eyes. "You move so _quietly,_ you scared the crap outta-"

" _Hélène_."

Mary's staring her in the eyes.

"You can beat Natasha Rostova. You can knock her off the top spot. You're going to make it to the Olympics and you're gonna medal. You can make gold."

Hélène stares at her, shocked.

"Get out there and do it. For both of us."

 

* * *

 

 

Hélène storms through the following week. She ignores Rostova, and she does her best to ignore Dmitriyevna - well, it's hard, especially when her return is all anyone's talking about.

Social media's blowing up about it like crazy. Hélène's got hundreds of messages from fans and trolls alike, all wanting to know about the situation with Dmitriyevna. What's it like living with a legend? How does she train? Are you two friends? Do you still have a shot at making the Olympic team? How does it feel knowing you haven't got a chance in hell?

She deletes the last sort of questions.

Rumour has it that Dmitriyevna's got a private room. Which is annoying as hell, considering everyone else gets told there's not enough space for single rooms. And she's brought her own physiotherapist along, which is ridiculous - they have a whole team of them at Novogorsk. And all her training sessions are private, which is even more annoying, because not only does Hélène have to share a solid half of her sessions with Natasha Rostova, but this means no one has any idea what her routines are gonna look like. If Hélène's going to make the Olympic team, she needs to have some idea of what she's up against.

But she's trying very hard to ignore all this. She's got routines to create.

And she's got the music for most of them. To show versatility, she's doing a softer, sweeter, more beautiful routine for ball, to a Javier Navarette piece. Her hoop music is the Jupiter piece from the Planets suite, which is... not exactly her favourite, but it'll do. Her clubs is a crowd-pleaser, especially for the upcoming Grand Prix in Moscow - which she intends to fucking _win_ \- it's a Bianka song from a couple years back.

It's the ribbon routine that's troubling her. She's sick of all the pretty classical pieces used for ribbon - Natasha is doing Grieg's Morning Mood and it makes Hélène want to throw up - in fact, she doesn't want to do any more classical pieces at all. And she's used up her lyric slot, so she's in a predicament.

It comes to her when she's forcing Mary to watch fashion shows while they're supposed to be sleeping. The background music is thumping and familiar, and when the vocals hit, Hélène is struck by a wave of inspiration.

"Gimme that!" she whisper-shouts and tugs the laptop away from Mary, who breathes a sigh of relief.

She was obsessed with this song when she was a kid. Every little girl was obsessed with this song when they were kids. She's hoping and praying that there's an instrumental version of this, and she's going to have limited time to make a routine good enough that Viner can't veto the song, and it'll take a miracle for this to come together but _god_ , it's going to be killer.

She looks it up and there it is.

_t.A.T.u - All The Things She Said - Instrumental_

 

* * *

 

 

This is where the real work begins. Hélène begins to lose herself in mindless routine, as she does every year. They're all training by seven, stretching, sprinting, skipping. Ballet classes and swimming and cycling three times a week. They begin to drill leaps and pivots and difficulties and apparatus handling. The group become inseparable, relearning to live and breathe and act as one. Hélène once again becomes intimately acquainted with her body, its capabilities and strengths and weaknesses, the burn in her muscles when she stretches, the way she wears out her half-shoes from pivots. She's got Zaripova on her case, shouting instructions at her to fix her penché, raise her arms higher, keep her relevé high all the way through the pivot. Once again, she remembers why she's not in this sport completely out of spite.

She's too exhausted to properly hate Natasha, even though she always gets a thrill out of seeing her tire. Dmitriyevna isn't even on her mind, mostly due to the fact all her training sessions are private. Days and days and days flash past, and Hélène pushes her body harder and harder, until the burn in her thighs that comes with every oversplit fades into nothing.

Hélène loves handling even the best, even though she's nowhere near as strong in that domain as Natasha. She loves the way each apparatus becomes an extension of her body. Loves the way she flicks her wrist and her ribbon trails into endless spirals behind her. She feels like the boundary between her body and artwork is blurring every time she steps onto the carpet.

It feels so goddamn _good_ to be back.

She sees Dmitriyevna in the halls, standing with the Rostova girls. Natasha's like a puppy, following her every move with these big, wide eyes, constantly asking her questions. Dmitriyevna doesn't seem to mind. She seems above it all, just like she did when she and Hélène used to compete together. Hélène can't stand it; she immerses herself in the sport, fights and sweats and bleeds for it, and Marya fucking Dmitriyevna dares to act like it doesn't affect her.

But there's no time for focusing on the others. It's her t.A.T.u. routine that's stressing her out - Viner's going to review them in a little under two weeks and if it's not good enough, she knows perfectly well the music will be vetoed.

Here's the thing; Hélène doesn't just hate Viner because she's a total bitch and she's been screamed at too many times to count. Hélène hates Viner because she's best friends with Putin and is just as bigoted as he is.

And here's another thing: Hélène's gay.

If she wasn't a gymnast, she would have packed up and left the country years ago. Gone to the US or somewhere - _anywhere_ else - and found herself a pretty girl and lived a life away from her parents and Irina Viner and the fucking anti-gay propaganda law. But she's one of the best gymnasts in the world, and the Russian federation's the best without question. So she's staying, even though it kills her to know she's never going to be able to _look_ at, let alone kiss a girl while she's here at Novogorsk.

Doing this routine though, to the most iconic lesbian anthem she can think of, is a small victory. Zaripova, bless her heart, doesn't recognise the song without the lyrics. Hélène knows full well Viner's smart enough to know, however. And so she pushes herself harder and harder past the point of pain because _god_ , she's going to perform this routine at Rio if it kills her.

The best part of it is that she and Zaripova have cooked up a new apparatus difficulty. Hélène's practicing it every day, running it over and over and over again; it's inspired by Deng Senyue's crazy throw from 2014. Hélène throws the ribbon high in the air, spins and rolls beneath it as it traces an arc above her, and catches it between her feet at the very edge of the carpet. The trick is catching it without the ribbon touching down over the line. If Hélène wants to beat Rostova for an Olympic spot, she has to up her handling and _this_ is her challenge. Every time she catches that fucking ribbon, she's looking Rostova in the eye and telling her, "I'm going to Rio, bitch."

What Hélène doesn't expect, however, is Marya Dmitriyevna to have any interest in what she's doing.

She's drilling the catch again. The bass is thrumming through her muscles - she likes to have the music so loud that she can't feel her own heartbeat - and she throws the ribbon in the air, spins twice, rolls once, twice, three times, and raises her legs up and catches the ribbon between her feet, keeping them pointed. She spins around on her back and tosses the ribbon into her left hand, rising up and bending her back down into a backscale pivot and - _fuck._ She's lost momentum. The music keeps going, but Hélène stops.

"Very interesting," calls a voice behind her.

That's not Zaripova. Hélène spins around and stares at Marya Dmitriyevna, who's leaning against the doorframe and holding a steaming mug of tea in her hands.

Hélène hasn't properly spoken to Marya since she arrived at Novogorsk. She doesn't know what to do.

"Can you turn the music off?" Marya's half-shouting.

Still slightly stunned, Hélène jogs to the CD player and presses pause.

"What do you want?" she snarls, immediately on the defensive.

Marya looks slightly taken aback. "There's no need for that tone of voice. I'm just interested in your routine."

"It doesn't have anything to do with you."

She raises an eyebrow. "It has everything to do with me. I'm competing against you for a spot at Rio. Of course I want to see what you're up to."

She crosses the floor. Marya always walks like she's in competition - pointed feet, straight back, nose in the air. It drives Hélène fucking insane. "Your hips are tilted on your penché," she says.

Hélène's blood is boiling. "I'm _aware_. Amina and I are working on it."

"You weren't this rude when we used to compete. What's gotten _into_ you?"

"Don't act like you don't know," snaps Hélène. "Three weeks ago, I was guaranteed a spot at Rio. You've had your glory. Why the fuck are you here?"

Marya presses her lips together, flaring her nostrils. There's a pause, where the two of them are glaring at each other, and Hélène's doing everything she can to suppress the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her, slap her, shout and scream because she's fucked _everything_ up.

"Get in position for your penché," says Marya finally.

Hélène's shaking from holding her anger in, but she lowers her torso until it's level with the floor and raises her leg up. Warm hands touch her hips, pushing hard until Hélène relaxes a little and lets them be moulded into position. "There," Marya says quietly. "Feel that? That's what you should be doing."

Hélène stands back up and stares at Marya, trying to read her, trying to get any idea of what this is supposed to be. "Why are you helping me?" she asks finally.

"When I beat you," says Marya, with a shark-like grin, "I want to make sure it's a fair fight."

 

* * *

 

 

"And then," Hélène spits, "she had the fucking gall to inform me that she's going to beat me for that Olympic fucking spot!"

Anatole laughs on the end of the line, and Hélène wants to kill him.

"Don't _fucking_ laugh! I swear I am seriously going to _end_ her. What was she even doing there?"

"She told you," says Anatole, still laughing. "Sussing out competition. If you had any sense, you'd be doing the same."

"I don't even want to know what she's doing. Besides, we all know it's going to be boring classical shit, like always. She never fucking changes. I hate Rostova but at least her music's somewhat _interesting_."

"Suit yourself. Your funeral. Hey, you still coming home for Christmas?"

Hélène groans. "Yeah. Fedya coming?"

"No, he's staying with his mother and sister. It won't be _that_ bed, Lena."

"It's not that bad for you. You could tell them to jump and they'd ask how fucking high. And they're going to be even worse when they find out I might not make it to Rio."

"You're going to Rio, Lena. Stop saying you won't."

She sighs. "I want this so bad, Anatole. I don't want to be a silver fucking medallist. I _have_ to win."

"I know," he says. "I know."

 

* * *

 

Christmas is predictably awful. Hélène suffers though hours upon hours of her parents fawning over Anatole. He plays them a violin piece and her mother starts _crying_ , for Christ's sake, and Hélène sits in stony silence. She'd rather be spending time with Natasha fucking Rostova than be doing this.

Of course, her parents heard about Dmitriyevna's return. And her father has the nerve to say, "Well, darling, you won't be in the game for much longer. You should really look into coaching. There's a good little club near here, and they're always looking for coaches, and they'd _love_ to have someone with your experience."

All Hélène can do is block it out. She's going to Rio, she's going to Rio, she's going to Rio. She's going to take home the gold and they're all going to be fucking sorry they underestimated her. She's a goddamn winner, and she won't rest until she's on top of that podium, with a crowd screaming for her, chanting her name.

Returning to Novogorsk is a breath of fresh air. Hélène throws herself back into training, relishes every second of it. She even forgets to care about Viner's annual post-Christmas scolding - the girls are all weighed, and Viner yells at them for not sticking to their diets, and threatens to put them on water-only for 72 hours. _Fuck_ her, Hélène thinks. She's got an Olympic spot to win.

Viner doesn't have anything to say about the music. She looks disapproving, the lines around her mouth deepening by the second as Hélène performs, but she congratulates her and Zaripova on the apparatus difficulty. Another victory.

They're all competing at the Moscow Grand Prix in mid-February, and Zaripova's drilling her even harder. Hélène doesn't even get the chance to talk to Mary anymore; she's so exhausted by the end of the day that she goes straight to bed. She doesn't talk to _anyone_ really, except for Zaripova and Viner. That's how it's always been, though; she keeps to herself and stays focused.

Dmitriyevna, however, seems to be getting on more and more with the Rostovas by the minute. She's even changed her endurance training sessions - which were _private_ and which Hélène would kill to have had in the first place - to be with all the other girls. Hélène's taken to bringing earbuds in order to block out the chatter.

They're swimming one day when _it_ happens, and by _it_ , Hélène means the beginning of what she's sure is going to be one hell of a giant clusterfuck. The girls are all getting out of the pool, tugging off their swimming caps, swaddling themselves in towels. Hélène stays in the pool as long as possible, floating, spreading her fingers and toes so she can feel nothing but the silky water lapping around her.

Of course, that has to be ruined by Marya Dmitriyevna and her henchmen the Rostovas pushing past her and giggling.

Hélène is very proud of herself for resisting the urge to tell them in no uncertain terms to _shut the fuck up_.

Reluctantly, she follows them out of the pool and starts peeling off her wet things. When you're an elite gymnast, you're no stranger to nudity - not that Hélène's ever really cared much about it anyway. She's halfway through wrapping a towel around herself when she hears a bunch of excited whispering behind her, followed by footsteps.

Hélène turns around. It's Marya.

"Yelena," says Marya, the syllables dripping prettily off her tongue. Hélène forgot Marya used to always pronounce her name the old Russian way. Despite herself, she blushes, and a sudden surge of anger rolls up inside of her. What does Marya think she's doing talking to her? And why the fuck is she so embarrassed?

Predictably, Hélène blushes more.

"I was, well, _we_ were wondering if..." Marya trails off uncertainly and looks behind her at the Rostovas, who are struggling to contain their laughter.

"If?" Hélène echoes snidely.

"Would you like to come grab a coffee with us?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thanks for reading this far! i've been thinking about nothing but this au for the past two days, i'm so excited by it! i've done a LOT of background work, so if you want to ask me any questions about it, come chat with me on tumblr @roxieusher!


	3. i feel totally lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which hélène decides to take a risk.

This is without a doubt the stupidest thing Hélène's ever done.

She takes note of the three girls surrounding her. Sonya Rostova's shoulders are hunched, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate. Sonya always looks nervous, like a mouse. There's a thick blue cardigan swallowing her, and water's dripping from her wet hair into the wool.

Natasha never looks nervous. Natasha's got one leg tucked under her and she's leaning forward, watching Dmitriyevna's every move. She's bouncing her free leg over and over and _over_ again, and it's driving Hélène crazy, almost crazy enough to turn to her and tell her to quit it or she won't _have_ a leg to bounce.

Marya Dmitriyevna's sitting opposite her, sipping regally from her mug. She sets it on the table and faces Hélène with a shit-eating grin.

"What's so _fucking_ funny?" snarls Hélène.

Sonya flinches.

"You really like to act like a cunt, don't you," Marya says calmly. "Note, however, that I am the cunt supreme. You're playing _my_ game, Yelena."

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Natasha's giggling into her drink. Hélène fixes her with a glare, but she doesn't even notice, she's snorting so hard.

"Anyway," Marya continues, "I'm smiling because I'm frankly thrilled to have you here. You're a difficult rival to pin down. You don't make any effort to talk to us at Novogorsk; in fact, I'd wager you do your best to _avoid_ us."

"Wow," says Hélène. "I wonder why that would be."

"Scared I'm going to sabotage you?" Marya asks, smirking.

" _Actually_ ," Hélène retorts, "I've got a season to focus on and an Olympic gold medal to win, so forgive me if I don't spend all my time _socialising_ with you."

Marya smiles placidly and adds extra sugar to her coffee. Natasha snickers next to her.

"Irina'll get you for that," she says.

" _Irina_ can suck it," says Marya. "If I'm spending the next hour with Yelena Kuragina, I'm going to need all the sugar I can get."

"What's the fucking point of inviting me if you're just going to be a bitch?" snaps Hélène.

"It was a _joke_ ," Natasha says quickly.

"It wasn't funny," Hélène shoots back quickly.

"My sincerest apologies, Yelena," says Marya, with a little bow of the head. "I'm merely trying to lighten the mood." She's still smiling, and Hélène wants to kick her under the table.

There's an awkward silence.

"So," says Sonya timidly, "tell us about your routines!"

Oh, _fuck_.

Hélène doesn't have it in her to be mean to Sonya. As much as she might hate Natasha, her quieter, sweeter cousin has never _done_ anything to upset her in any way - hell, Hélène reckons Sonya's never upset anyone in her life. She can't reasonably say something mean.

 _But_ \- and it's a big but - this is obviously some kind of bullshit tactic to determine what Natasha and Hélène are up against. Sonya's not even fucking good at disguising it. _Tell us about your routines_ \- yeah, like hell she will.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she mutters, glancing down at her coffee. Hélène likes it black and strong as hell. She's praying it's going to be enough to make it through the next hour.

"Actually, we would like to know," says Marya, and to Hélène's surprise it's not aggressive, not argumentative. She sounds... genuinely interested, and that's what makes it weird. What the fuck's her motive? "I mean, we've seen everyone else's - I see Natasha's every day, and I've seen Julie's and Yeon Jae's, and we go to watch the group every now and then -"

"Natasha's seen mine," Hélène interrupts. "We share a carpet every day."

"Yeah, but I'm busy _practising_ ," says Natasha. "I've never actually gotten to see it when I'm not getting my head bitten off by Irina."

It's weird to hear Natasha talk about Viner like that. Hélène's never heard her complain before, or express anything other than total adoration, really. But that's beside the point - she's being grilled by her _rivals_ over her routines, for fuck's sake, and she glares daggers at Marya across the table.

" _Maybe_ ," she snarls, "I don't like you trying to back me into a corner, Dmitryevna."

Sonya gulps.

Marya seems unfazed. "At least I got to see your new apparatus difficulty. It's about time you got something named after you."

Marya has at least three difficulties named after her, and Hélène's palms are itching with the urge to flip the table.

"You really think you're the shit, don't you?" she spits.

 _Now_ she looks uncertain. "That was a compliment. Maybe a little backhanded of me, I admit. But a compliment nonetheless." She pauses. Hélène eyeballs her across the table. "Natasha's got her own one too. Tell her, Tasha dear."

It's always beyond Hélène how Natasha can beam so brightly when the air is thick with tension. "It's _so_ cool!" she gushes. "It's a walkover with the ball spinning on my finger the whole time! I'm _so_ excited to perform it in competition!"

Hélène's still watching Marya and Marya looks... fond. Like Natasha's a younger sister or something. And Hélène realises, oh _shit_ , Marya genuinely likes the kid, and what's that pang deep in her chest? She's not _jealous_ , is she?

Of course not. She doesn't need Marya, or the Rostovas, or anyone. All her life she's managed just fine on her own. At the end of the day, if she knows she's done a good job, she's happy.

But, she thinks - and that niggling little voice in her brain starts whispering - it's Marya fucking Dmitriyevna. The greatest, most decorated rhythmic gymnast of all time. Who wouldn't want approval, praise, even just a look like the one she's giving Natasha right now? Hélène spent her entire career in Marya's shadow, and Marya never even looked twice at her. And now she's doing nothing but praising Natasha Rostova, her rival, the person Hélène hates most, and it _hurts_.

Would it kill Marya to acknowledge Hélène just _once?_

Natasha's _still_ going on about her stupid apparatus difficulty. Hélène takes an angry gulp of her coffee and breathes in deep, the way she forces herself to do when she's mad. When all this suffocating poison takes hold of her and makes her crazy.

Marya's talking now, and Hélène calms herself down enough to tune in.

"- it's du Pré's rendition, and it's _gorgeous_ \- Sonyushka, I'll have to send you a link to the video, it's _divine_ the way she plays - and I'm loving the way I really have to grapple with the ribbon for this to work. It's a very intense piece." She sighs and smiles. "I can't wait to perform it in Rio."

Hélène's fists clench in her lap.

"Yelena," Marya says, "do you listen to much classical music?"

Hélène stares at her. "No."

"Hélène's doing her ribbon to a t.A.T.u. song," says Natasha suddenly, like she just remembered.

"Ta-who?" frowns Marya. "A rock song?"

It's hard not to laugh, really. "No," Hélène tells her. "It's a pop song." Marya still looks confused. "It's very famous."

"Ah," Marya says, like she understands. She clearly doesn't. "Well, that sounds frankly unlistenable."

Another silence.

This time, Natasha breaks it. She turns to Hélène, giving Hélène just enough time to think, oh _shit_ , and says, "Hélène, why don't you hang out with us more often?"

Sonya raises her eyes heavenward.

There are lots of things Hélène could say.

She could say, you're my rival for an Olympic spot, and I hate you because you've done nothing but beat me this past year. She could say, you're Irina Viner's protégée and you're probably just like her and you'd conspire to throw me out of Novogorsk if you knew I liked girls. She could say, you've caught Marya Dmitriyevna's eye without even trying, when for four years I did everything to get her attention. She could say, you make me so jealous I want to claw my eyes out. She could just say, I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone before.

She doesn't. She says, defensively, "I like to keep to myself."

Natasha's not satisfied. She stares intently at Hélène. "Yeah, but - you do only ever talk to Mary and you look at me like -"

"Tasha," says Marya gently.

She falters and stops. Hélène's confused. What the fuck? Did Natasha Rostova really just express remorse that Hélène isn't her friend?

It has to be a trap. There's no way they invited her here to just be friendly. They want something, and Hélène isn't sure what it is yet, but there's a price to pay for whatever she gives them.

Fuck them, she thinks savagely, gripping the handle of her mug so hard her knuckles turn white. She doesn't need shit from them. She shouldn't have come here in the first place.

"You could hang out with us, though," says Sonya slowly. "You know, if you get lonely."

Both the Rostovas turn to look at Marya, and so does Hélène; that's when she notices that Marya is staring at her with a strange expression on her face. Hélène's spine crawls. She stares back, and Marya drags her eyes up and down her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her face. Hélène's never felt more deeply observed in that moment, and it's weird. It's not _bad_. Marya's gaze is more curious, exploratory than anything else. It's like she's studying her, trying to figure something out. Problem is, Hélène's not sure what.

"You're a lot different from how I remember, Yelena," Marya drawls. "And somehow, you're exactly the same."

"You haven't changed either. You're just as delusionally overconfident."

Marya laughs at that, and her focus is broken. Hélène breathes a little easier, relaxes. Her palms are sweaty from that piercing stare.

"Delusionally overconfident?" Marya says, still laughing heartily. "Baby, I'm a six-time world champion. I'm an Olympic fucking gold medallist! I'll be the first to win two successive golds this summer, just you wait."

And just when Hélène thinks she might be able to stand Marya Dmitriyevna's company longer than five minutes, she goes and says some stupid shit like that.

She stands up.

"Thanks for the coffee, Dmitriyevna," she says. "I'll talk to you after I win the gold in Moscow."

Before Marya can get the last word, Hélène walks out of the café and into the cold.

 

* * *

 

Irina Viner _loves_ to throw surprises at the girls. Stuff like, _I'm changing the group lineup for Guadalajara_ , or _Hélène, you'll be the centerpiece at the gala and you have a week to learn choreo,_ or _Julie, I don't like your ball music. We're changing it_.

At this point, it really shouldn't have come to Hélène as a surprise when Viner pulls her, Marya and Natasha out of ballet and into her office.

"Match TV wants an interview," she says, "and we're going to give it to them."

The details. They'll be here tomorrow, Viner says. They want to film your daily life at Novogorsk, Viner says. (Natasha eagerly offers to show off her and Sonya's room, which annoys Hélène to no end.) They want three separate interviews, Viner says.

What Viner doesn't say, and what Hélène knows is blatantly obvious - well, perhaps not obvious to Natasha, because Natasha's an airhead - is that the interview is taking place purely to capitalise on rivalries. The rivalry between Natasha and Hélène. The rivalry Hélène and Marya once had. The competition for the two Olympic spots. The season doesn't start in Moscow; it starts here. This is just another competition to win.

"You're representing our nation," Viner warns. "You're to behave like rhythmic gymnasts, not a bunch of soccer players."

Yeah, right. Viner knows perfectly well that they're going to be poked and prodded and pushed into denouncing each other, bitching and whining and moaning. Thanks to Marya's return, this is the most exciting season in years. Match TV isn't going to be the last channel to make as much of this as they can.

They leave Viner's office and Hélène storms back into ballet, glaring at anyone who so much as looks at her.

"Why are you in such a bad mood?" Mary murmurs behind her.

"We have to do this _stupid_ fu- stupid interview," Hélène hisses back.

"And that's bad because...?"

" _Because_ they're going to make me out to be a villain, that's why."

"Hélène! Mary! Attitude!"

Hélène raises her leg and smoulders.

That's the thing. Marya and Natasha's main common feature is how much they're _loved_ \- not just by Russia, but by the entire rhythmic world. When Hélène was younger, she stood by Marya's side as she signed hundreds of autographs at a time, posed for photos, had excited little girls clasp her hand and whisper, "I want to be _you_ when I grow up." And then when Natasha burst onto the scene, it was the same; they called her the Snow Princess, and interviewed her everywhere. And then there was Hélène.

Hélène, whose routines were too fast, too frenetic and passionate. Hélène, who was charming when she wanted to be, but was so full of anger and jealousy and bile that it spilled out of her with every step. Hélène, forever destined to stand second on the podium. Always the silver medallist. Always too much and not enough all at once. Always slightly out of place in this stupid fucking sport.

She knows how this interview's going to go. It's the same story they've been spinning for years. Marya, the champion. Natasha, the prodigy. And Hélène, the other one. The obstacle in the way of Marya and Natasha's rightful Olympic places.

It's not fucking fair. Hélène grits her teeth and raises up onto pointed toes, lifting her extended leg higher. Try as she might, she can't beat the system. The system always wins. 

 

* * *

 

Hélène wakes up to the sound of footsteps and bustling outside her room. Mary's still asleep; the alarm mustn't have gone off yet. She slides out of bed and goes straight to the shower, turns it on hot enough that her skin stings and she can't think about anything but the pressure of the water bearing down upon her.

She doesn't think about the interview. She's not going to think about the interview. It doesn't matter, she tells herself firmly, looking in the steamed-up mirror. What matters is everything you do on-carpet. Fuck the interview, fuck Dmitriyevna, fuck Rostova. This is a battle against herself.

She wishes that were true.

When she's dressed, she opens the door and _shit_ , there's a camera in her face. Hélène forces herself to smile, kind of bashfully, like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't, and gives them a quiet greeting. She wants to rip the camera out of its operator's hands and throw it to the ground. She wants to chase the crew out of Novogorsk. She wants, she wants, she wants.

Today, Hélène thinks, is going to be a _special_ kind of hell.

The dining area is half-taken up by cameras and microphones and wires everywhere. She side-steps it all, trying her best to ignore the camera following her, and slips toast in the toaster. Butters it. Pours herself a glass of orange juice. Everything feels doubly hard when she's being watched. She makes herself turn and smile briefly at the camera.

When she goes to sit down, a man gestures for her to sit with Marya Dmitriyevna and the Rostovas. Hélène weighs it up. On one hand, if she doesn't, it'll mark her out as separate, as _other_. On the other hand, she can't fucking stand them.

Hélène makes the sensible decision, but it doesn't feel at all sensible. She walks over to their table and sits down like it's normal, like it happens every day. Natasha looks shocked, but Marya just smiles to herself - which infuriates Hélène more than anything. She bites her tongue.

As it turns out, she doesn't have to talk much. Natasha does most of the talking, gossiping and giggling, chatting about the group - and Sonya interjects plenty here, talking about all the drama going on with Bliznyuk and Tatareva. Marya drinks gossip up, Hélène notices. She eggs Natasha on, adding little comments here and there, laughing. Hélène can't say the conversation is _boring_ \- she's interested in how much of a bitch Bliznyuk really is - and she almost forgets the cameras watching them.

The cameras follow them into training. Natasha shows off the entire time, unsurprisingly. A 270° oversplit, her new apparatus difficulty, her Kabaeva-esque back flexibility. With all cameras trained on Natasha, Hélène starts to relax a little, pushes herself harder, brings her right foot up a rung on the ladder and eases into the burn of the stretch.

Practice starts. Zaripova drills Hélène's apparatus difficulty over and over again until she can do it with her eyes closed - "No sight!" she calls, clapping her hands sharply. "Don't you _dare_ look, Hélène!"

Everything starts to merge into a blur of aching muscles and fumbling hands. She tries and tries over again to twirl the clubs, but the cameras are following her every move and she can hardly breathe, especially when her left hand keeps _dropping_ the fucking club, and Zaripova's shouting at her and Hélène is fighting _so_ hard to stop herself from collapsing.

"I need a break," she calls, holding back tears with a fist dragged across the eyes. She trudges to a chair and sits, trembling. She's so _fucking_ stupid. This is her one chance to prove to fans that she's worth fighting for, and she's fucking it all up.

"You alright?" says a voice, and it's horribly familiar.

"Fuck _off_ , Dmitriyevna," she mutters hoarsely.

"Are you having a panic attack? Do you need water? Do you need to get out of here?"

"I said, _fuck off_." The tears are coming now, coursing down her cheeks, and she rubs furiously at her eyes, sniffs repeatedly.

"Hey," she hears Marya say, "fuck off. Leave us alone." She looks up and the cameras are retreating.

"Will you just -" and she's crying harder now, unable to finish her sentence. What the _fuck_ is happening? She's not this weak, she's not stupid enough to cry like this in front of a rival, in front of a fucking _film crew_. She wants to sink into the floor. She wants to be invisible. She wants this fucking day to be over, so she take a hot shower and crawl into bed and sleep. She wants so badly to be with Anatole or Mary or _anyone_ but Marya goddamn Dmitriyevna.

"Yelena," says Marya, ever so softly. "They're gone. I promise you, you're going to be okay, but you need to calm down before Viner notices something's up."

Breathe. Breathe. She can't afford to let her fucking guard down.

"God," she says shakily, blinking over and over again. "This interview bullshit is so stupid."

Marya chuckles. "I know. Just breathe, alright? Breathe."

Hélène sucks air deep into her lungs, clenches her fists. "You don't fucking tell Natasha about this, you understand?"

"Of course." Marya's voice is low, gentle. Not like Hélène's paying attention.

She rubs at her face until her skin is only a little damp, and looks at Marya. What's her motive? What does she want in return? Hélène can't fucking figure it out. She looks... worried? Concerned? She's such a good actress, it's scary.

She waits a few more minutes and head back onto the carpet. The clubs fly so fast through her fingers, she feels invincible.

 

* * *

  

That afternoon, Hélène gets pulled out of training for her interview.

"Sit down," says the lady interviewing her, smiling. They've put a red curtain behind the chair, and the lights are all at weird angles, presumably to make Hélène look good. Or they could be there to make her look awful. She wouldn't put it past them.

The lady gestures at the chair again, and Hélène sits down. "I'm Daria," she says, and Hélène recognises the name, notices she looks vaguely familiar. "Is there anything we can get you? Tea? Coffee? Whatever would make you feel comfortable."

"Water would be great, thanks," she says warily. Have Marya and Natasha already been here? What have they said about her? How does this woman really feel about Hélène Kuragina?

One of the crew brings her a glass of water. She wraps her fingers around it, cool and firm in her hand.

You're not going to fucking embarrass yourself again, she tells herself. You're not here to sell a sob story. You're here to prove your worth. You're here to prove you're the best.

Daria talks to her a little. Praises her for what she saw her do on-carpet, tells her a bit about the last thing she filmed - something to do with soccer; Hélène's not really listening. She smiles in all the appropriate places, nods and makes little noises of interest, but really, she's a million miles away. The thing is, this is her _shot._ This is her chance to start the season off right, to show everyone that she's a real contender for the Olympic spot. That if she makes it to Rio, she'll win.

"Alright," says Daria. "Let's go."

Suddenly, there are lights in her face and there's a microphone above her and cameras trained on her every move. Hélène breathes deep, composes herself. She can do this.

The questions start off easy. How old were you when you first started rhythmic gymnastics? How did you come to Novogorsk? When did you know this was what you wanted to do with your life?

"I was four," Hélène says. "I was thirteen and my coach took me to Irina Viner after I'd started winning national titles." Hélène says. "I never dreamed of anything else," Hélène says.

"You were only sixteen when you won your Olympic silver medal," says Daria. "Take us through that moment."

"Well, I'd only been a senior for a year and a half. So it was this crazy whirlwind - I never really got the chance to sit down and take it all in. I just did what my coaches told me to do. So when I won the medal, I just took it in my stride. I didn't think that was particularly impressive because I was sixteen. It just seemed a natural sequence of events for me to win."

"There was still a significant gap in points between gold and silver," Daria muses, and _fuck_ , Hélène knows what's coming next. "Of course, I'm talking about the gold medallist in London, the legendary Marya Dmitriyevna. How was it to train with her during your early senior years?"

Well, at least she can be honest here. "Marya - we never really spoke that much, to be honest. She had her group of friends, she wasn't new to this. I spent all my time training and focusing, and to be honest, I was too scared to approach her. So although we spent four years training together, I guess we didn't really interact much besides the occasional bit of... encouragement? Yeah, encouragement at competitions."

"Has there been a change in your interactions since she's returned?"

"We, uh... well, again, she has a different circle of friends than I do. We see each other around - I mean, I guess there's more of a rivalry than there was before." She forces a laugh. "So I focus a lot on my training. I don't really have time to make friends."

Daria doesn't stop smiling. It's weird as fuck. Hélène forces herself to breathe, to raise the corners of her mouth into a smile. It's all so artificial and forced and she's so _bad_ at this, wants to get out of here as soon as possible. She doesn't _want_ to talk about Marya. Can't she have one _fucking_ moment where she doesn't have to think about her rivals?

"How about your rivalry with Natasha Rostova? Because when Marya retired, everyone assumed you'd be Russia's number one."

_Fuck._

"Well, uh... I guess if you'd payed attention, you know, you would have seen her rising up the junior ranks before 2015, so it shouldn't have really come as a surprise..." Fuck. It's too accusatory, and a lame fucking excuse at that. "But yeah, her skill did come as a shock to everyone... You know, it was a pretty good senior début. I'll give her that."

Fuck it. She doesn't care. She doesn't give a shit what Daria whatever-her-name-is thinks of her. Fuck all of them, and fuck this fucking interview. They're going to spin it to make her look like a villain anyway; might as well give them what they want.

She licks her lips, crosses her legs and waits for Daria to reply.

"Pretty good? Some would say she's the next Kabaeva. How do you respond to that?"

"You know, I think it's kind of dumb when people compare gymnasts to other gymnasts... everyone's got their own styles, you know, you can't really compare anyone to someone like Kabaeva, who competed in a completely different quad - it was a totally different time and uh, context. Natasha's good. So's Dmitriyevna. But I'm just as good as they are, and this season I'm focusing on showing that."

"You think you've been underappreciated?"

"Living in the shadow of a superstar like Dmitriyevna makes it hard to, uh, get recognition. But I'm changing that. I'm talented, and I work just as hard, if not harder than they do."

Daria looks kind of taken aback, and Hélène feels a sting of pride.

"Talk us through your initial reaction to Marya's return to competition."

"Well, if I'm going to be honest, I wasn't _pleased_. We all know there's only two spots for Rio, right? And I refuse to go in reserve. So it kind of threw me - I don't think it threw Natasha though, even though it should have - but you know, this is all just part of the game." She shrugs. "It's just one more person I have to beat. It would be good to use her as a standard to measure myself against, but it's not like she trains with _us_ mere mortals."

"She doesn't train with you?"

"No, all her sessions are private. Which is, you know, kind of frustrating."

Surprise is written all over Daria's face, and Hélène's loving it. Let them all see what kind of bitch Marya Dmitriyevna really is.

"You've been accused by fans of having routines not mature or classically artistic enough for consistent gold medals. Can we expect to see any changes in your routines this season?"

Hélène pauses.

"I think... I think my routines this year are very representative of who I am." God, that's the closest she's going to get to admitting she's gay on national television _ever_. "I'm very proud of them, and I hope fans everywhere will enjoy them."

The questions that follow are boring ones, about training and diets and how proud she is to be a representative of Russia, blah blah blah, but Hélène answers them all with gusto, riding on the high left by her loose tongue. Let Viner and Dmitriyevna and Rostova suck it. Let everyone who's ever doubted her sit and watch as she storms her way to fucking Rio.

Daria asks her a final question: "What would you like fans to know about you that they don't already?"

Hélène smiles, and it's a real smile this time - a smirk, deep and honest and dangerous. "You don't know me. You never have. But believe me," and her smile widens, "by the end of this year, you will."

 

* * *

 

 

It's two weeks later when the interview airs; more importantly, it's a week out from the Moscow Grand Prix and Hélène, honestly, has barely thought about the interview at all.

She doesn't think about it all day. She wakes up and eats jam on toast - if Viner saw her she'd be furious - and then trains, trains, trains, and then eats dinner (it's fish, which she hates), and decides to head to bed early.

She notices everyone's going to the lounge and thinks nothing of it.

She's half-asleep, the light of her phone preventing her from slipping into slumber completely, when suddenly it starts vibrating and she jerks awake, groans.

"Anatole, you woke me u-"

"Holy fucking shit, Lena. Hoooooly fucking shit."

" _What?_ " she snarls. God, she's painfully awake now, her eyes stinging, and she's three seconds away from hanging up on her stupid brother -

"You did not just do that. _Tell_ me you did not just come for Marya fucking Dmitriyevna on _national television_."

Oh, fucking shit. Fucking cock-sucking piles of flaming fucking shit.

"It aired," she says slowly, struggling to get her thoughts in order.

" _Yeah_ , it fucking - oh my God. Oh my _God!!!_ You fucking forgot, didn't you?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," mutters Hélène. She forgot. How could she fucking _forget_ she was denouncing her rivals on national television? She is so goddamn fucking stupid.

She pushes her hair out of her eyes. "What did they make me say? Anatole?"

He's cackling on the other end of the line. "Fedya, she didn't even _see_ it! She slept through the whole thing!"

" _Anatole!_ What the fuck did they make me say?"

"Oh, you mostly spoke for yourself," he assures her, except it's no fucking assurance at all. "There was the part where you bitched about Marya having private training sessions. _And_ the part where you passively-aggressively called Natasha's senior début 'pretty good'. Or what about the twenty or so times you declared you were going to beat them in Rio? And who could forget the bit where you whined about who underrated you are?"

"I didn't fucking whine!"

" _Meanwhile_ ," Anatole continues, with obvious relish, "you had Marya and Natasha going on and on about how they were such good friends with everyone, and how they didn't care about competition because they were so _proud_ to be representing their country."

"Oh my God."

"And _Irina Viner_ talking about how she's so proud of the 'team spirit' you all share."

"Oh my _God_ ," she murmurs, and holy fucking shit, she's fucked up. She's fucked up big time. She let the excitement of an interview get to her and now she's fucked up the image of the entire Russian team and everyone's going to hate her and Irina Viner's going to have her head on a fucking platter.

"That was," Anatole says, "the _best_ fucking thing I've ever -"

The door swings open and the lights flicker on.

"Hélène," says Mary, eyes wide. "What did you just _do?_ "

"Hang on," she tells Anatole. She looks up at her friend and Mary looks _shocked_ , like she's just seen a ghost or something.

"Viner's going to _kill_ you," she says. "She was in the lounge - I haven't seen her so angry since Tatareva swore at her at Worlds last year. And the room... you could have heard a pin drop, Hélène, like it was _bad_. It was really, really bad. I don't envy you, I really don't."

Voices in the hall. Mary looks through the door and visibly blanches.

And suddenly _Sonya Rostova_ of all people storms through the door. She whips her head around, and Hélène can see her cheeks are flushed and Jesus, she's _shaking_ , and Hélène's about to ask her if she's okay when -

"You don't get to talk like that about Natasha or Marya _ever again_ ," she spits. "They've put up with enough - enough _shit_ from you, but you will _never_ talk about them like that publicly again - they've done _nothing_ to you, and you just treat everyone like -"

"Down, girl," says a familiar voice and oh _God_ , it's Marya.

The room seems uncomfortably small with all these people in it.

Marya, infuriatingly, is serene as ever - she seems _amused_ more than anything. She turns that irritating little smile on Hélène, and Hélène's fists clench instinctively.

"What's going on?" says Anatole from the phone on the bed.

Their eyes lock. Marya's eyes are green and kind of almond shaped, Hélène notes, and then remembers that it's ridiculous to focus on her fucking eyes.

There's a very long pause, broken only by Sonya's furious panting.

"If you want even the slightest chance of going to Rio," Marya says finally, "you're going to have to work a lot fucking harder."

Hélène is going to fucking kill her.

 

* * *

 

 

**MATCH TV RG Special - Dmitriyevna, Rostova, Kuragina Interview {ENGLISH + SPANISH SUBS}**

13,237 views

 

 **Comments**    38

 

NicolaV  [15 minutes ago]

YAAAAAAS QUEEEN!!!!!!! MY BABY DMITRIYEVNA IS BACK!!!!! <3<3<3

 

kuruchko  [28 minutes ago]

i really dont like the way Kuragina talks about her competitors... seems like bad sportsmanship to me.

 

Mark Schlieffer  [49 minutes ago]

26:35-28:46 are GOLDEN! You don't see much of this anymore in RG haha

 

RGFangirl  [53 minutes ago]

Did she seriously say that??? *sigh* rg is going down the drain along with ag i guess....

 

pryanichek99  [1 hour ago]

Everyone in the comments needs to relax. Besso said the same stuff about Kanaeva and everyone still loves her.

 

                  Alina3000  [45 minutes ago]

                  Yeah, but Besso had TALENT.

 

fashiongurl18  [1 hour ago]

both Rostova and Kuragina are awful gymnasts, they are fat and ugly. Only Dmitriyevna deserves to win

                 

                  clodiusclub  [21 minutes ago]

                  are you FUCKING kidding me is fashiongurl back AGAIN

 

Jon Vogel  [1 hour ago]

I'm very disappointed to see this kind of behaviour from Kuragina. I really thought she was better than this.

netarivkinfan  [1 hour ago]

*yells at the sky* THANK U RG GODS FOR GIVING US SUBTITLES!!!!!!!!!

 

SonYeonJae99  [1 hour ago]

seriously what is with kuragina... i always got a bad vibe from her

 

Alina Nikolaevna  [1 hour ago]

OK... my thoughts on interview...

I was worried that Dmitriyevna would be out of shape coming back after 1 year but I am not so worried now.. she looks to be in very good form.

Rostova is delight as always, I am very excited to see what she will do this season.

_View more_

 

                  kabaeva1960  [1 hour ago]

                  I don't think Kuraginas comments are to be expected at all.. I am really unimpressed by this,            and im disappointed because I always likked her routines

 

                  Alina Nikolaevna  [1 hour ago]

                  These are just my opinions!!

 

Justanerdyfanboyinthetardis  [1 hour ago]

OMG WHAT JUST HAPPENED

 

ClemantyRigus  [2 hours ago]

Oof.... Helene really went in there

 

yaowen shang  [2 hours ago]

frankly kuragina is being a real bitch. i hope she doesn't make it to rio, both dmitriyevna and rostova seem like far better contenders for the places

 

GigiXX  [2 hours ago]

Wow, Viner's reeeeallyy not going to be happy about this... I wouldn't be surprised if she pulled her from the Grand Prix

 

crazycat11  [2 hours ago]

just when i think this sport can't get crazier! Not impressed

 

_View all comments_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! sorry for the long wait, this chapter was an absolute bitch to write! but it's done now and i'm pretty pleased with how it turned out! PLENTY of foreshadowing in this one!! i've got the majority of the story mapped out now, and im super excited with what's going to happen.  
> in other news, the moscow grand prix happened and like.... it was SO much. sasha soldatova's magic colour-changing leo? salome pazhava's amazing ribbon routine? dina crying over her gold medal bc of her sister's injury? i urge you all to follow rhythmic gymnastics along with me this season!  
> thank you so much for reading this far!! remember, comments make my day! also you can find me on tumblr @roxieusher where we can talk about all things rhythmic gymnastics and great comet until the cows come home.


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